What Happens in the President of the New United States' Bed
by sartiebodyshots
Summary: Cochise wastes an inordinate amount of time in Tom Mason's bed.


Cochise had known that courting a human would be a unique experience, but it's been even more unique than he thought. Not only because they are a small, fragile, and _hairy_ species, and not only because they're so passionate and resilient, but also because they require extended periods of unconsciousness even when they're not injured.

It happens in some species, Cochise understands. What he doesn't really understand is the human penchant for _cuddling_. He hadn't even known what cuddling was until Tom had explained it.

As ludicrous as it sounds, Cochise now often finds himself wrapped around his fragile, hairy human while he spends his allocated time unconscious. Even more ludicrous, he finds himself _enjoying _it. He tries to rationalize it: after all, if his body is curled around Tom's and there's some kind of attack, Tom will be safe. Humans are so vulnerable, especially when they're unconscious. And Tom is not only important to Cochise, but to many of the humans left on Earth.

The truth is, though, that he enjoys curling up with Tom for its own sake. Tom is warm and Cochise always feels a strange surge of affection while they're cuddling. Not to mention, it's the longest stretch he has Tom to himself. Even if Tom isn't actually awake.

It's something he leaves out of his mission reports back home- everyone thinks he's acting absurd already, but if his father knew he's wasting so much time in the middle of a war (he spends an average of twenty eight to thirty five hours every week cuddling Tom, by Earth measurements) he might force him to a different posting.

Cochise would find that very disagreeable.

He catalogs the different things that Tom does in his sleep. Unfortunately, given his inexperience with sleeping humans other than Tom, he doesn't know if he should be concerned over how often Tom rolls around in his sleep, but he's fairly certain that he should be. At first, Cochise had assumed that it was a normal part of the human sleep pattern, but Cochise realizes that Tom often makes noises associated with sadness, pain, or fear as he does so.

When it becomes unbearable, Cochise nudges Tom awake. Tom looks at him with grateful, sad eyes and presses his lips to his cheek, sips on a glass of water, and rolls back around to return to unconsciousness once more.

Other times, he sleeps so still and silently that Cochise double checks that he's breathing. From Cochise's observations, it occurs most when Tom has been getting less rest than on average. It doesn't concern Cochise as long as Tom's breathing is regular.

It's not unusual for Tom to push himself back against Cochise or to turn around and nuzzle his face against him. Cochise enjoys that. The feeling of closeness is incredible, and unlike anything else that Cochise has felt. It's somewhat unnerving- Cochise has been to countless planets and left them all without much of a second thought. And, quite suddenly, he has found himself attached to one planet primarily because of this one man. Because you can't become attached to Tom Mason without also becoming attached to his offspring and his planet. Tom would never allow it.

The most interesting thing that Tom does in his sleep is talk. It's not always understandable, but even when it is, it's usually a few words at most. The names of his offspring, random words that make no sense to Cochise without context, "Cochise."

Every once in a while, Tom says the name of his deceased mate, Rebecca. From what Cochise has gathered from observing human social norms, this indicates that he's feeling mournful, a feeling Cochise can empathize with. Those mornings, Cochise attempts to be as amiable as possible.

One night something very unique happens. Tom begins murmuring in his sleep. Cochise can't understand what he's saying at first, so he carefully turns Tom onto his back and leans in so he can hear more accurately.

"…absence was the one constant problem that Abigail and John had in their marriage. Since she missed John, Abigail moved to Boston to be with him in 1768. Abigail wasn't completely happy with the move because she had to leave her family behind, but she did like seeing John more…"

Cochise realizes Tom must be reciting an old lecture or else making some kind of speech in his sleep. Perhaps, Cochise thinks, he should have anticipated that happening, but it's a pleasant new entry in his mental datafile: _Things Tom Mason Does in his Sleep_.

It will also make for a pleasant new entry in his actual datafile: _Earth History_. Cochise doesn't know about how humans view keeping datafiles on their partner's behavior, but he knows that Tom appreciates anyone who expresses an interest in history.

Tom rolls over and Cochise rolls with him, so Tom is on top of him, still murmuring. Cochise pulls the blanket a little higher up and rests his hands on Tom's back, trying not to laugh as his beard tickles his bare chest. Still, he always finds listening to Tom soothing (unless they're in more danger than normal), so he lays there, more content than usual.

The content feeling persists, even as Tom's murmuring trickles off to his steady breathing. A few hours later, Cochise notes that Tom is stirring- it's almost time for him to wake up. He looks down at Tom just as Tom is starting to blink himself awake.

"Did you have a nice rest cycle?" Cochise asks softly.

Tom takes a moment to think, looking up at him with bleary eyes. Cochise likes how soft and gentle Tom looks when he's waking up happily, softer than usual.

"Yeah… yeah, it was good," Tom says, sleepily. "How was your night? You seem…"

"What?" Cochise asks after an inordinately long pause. He's worried that something may be wrong.

"Effervescent. You seem effervescent, Cochise," Tom says, snuggling in closer to him.

That takes him aback as he double checks that he's interpreting the word correctly. In all of his life, nobody has ever called him anything close to effervescent. The closest is, maybe, cheery. And that's stretching the definition of the closest Volm equivalent, and even then, it hadn't been a compliment.

"You gave me a lecture on your history while you were unconscious," Cochise says.

Tom smiles at him, wide and beautiful. "It happens sometimes."

"Interesting. I look forward to more such lectures at night," Cochise says.

"What was it on?" There's something in Tom's voice that tells Cochise that there's a significance here that he's missing. It's a feeling Cochise has grown very accustomed to since coming to Earth.

"The influence that Abigail Adams had on her mate's political career," Cochise replies.

The creases around the corners of Tom's eyes deepen, which always does something strange to Cochise. He presses his lips to Cochise's chest and reaches to hold his hand.

In response, Cochise reaches over to find his other hand. For humans, holding one hand is a sign of intimacy, but for Volm, it takes two hands to show intimacy; it requires that both partners devote their whole attention to their mates. It's a different kind of intimacy though, reserved for partners who have deeper and more substantial feelings. Tom squeezes both of his hands gently, well aware of the significance.

Feeling comfortable and feeling daring, Cochise says, "I might even be able to give a lecture on the subject now."

"Oh yeah?" Tom bites his lip to hide his grin. "You wanna try?"

Cochise inclines his head and begins. He holds Tom's rapt attention for ten or so minutes before finishing, at which point Tom fills in a few gaps.

"You know what?" Tom says when they're laying together afterwards. "My sons are going to be so mad that there are two people giving history lessons in their family now."

That gives Cochise a whole new set of strange, unusual feelings on his insides. He almost considers putting himself in a regenerative state, but he realizes that these are good feelings. Excellent, even.


End file.
